A Pluralistic Universe, by William James

Lecture VIII

Conclusions

Specifically religious experiences occur. Their nature. They corroborate the notion of a larger life
of which we are a part. This life must be finite if we are to escape the paradoxes of monism. God as a finite being.
Empiricism is a better ally than rationalism, of religion. Empirical proofs of larger mind may open the door to
superstitions. But this objection should not be deemed fatal. Our beliefs form parts of reality. In pluralistic
empiricism our relation to God remains least foreign. The word ‘rationality’ had better be replaced by the word
‘intimacy.’ Monism and pluralism distinguished and defined. Pluralism involves indeterminism. All men use the
‘faith-ladder’ in reaching their decision. Conclusion.

At the close of my last lecture I referred to the existence of religious experiences of a specific nature. I must
now explain just what I mean by such a claim. Briefly, the facts I have in mind may all be described as experiences of
an unexpected life succeeding upon death. By this I don’t mean immortality, or the death of the body. I mean the
deathlike termination of certain mental processes within the individual’s experience, processes that run to failure,
and in some individuals, at least, eventuate in despair. Just as romantic love seems a comparatively recent literary
invention, so these experiences of a life that supervenes upon despair seem to have played no great part in official
theology till Luther’s time; and possibly the best way to indicate their character will be to point to a certain
contrast between the inner life of ourselves and of the ancient Greeks and Romans.

Mr. Chesterton, I think, says somewhere, that the Greeks and Romans, in all that concerned their moral life, were an
extraordinarily solemn set of folks. The Athenians thought that the very gods must admire the rectitude of Phocion and
Aristides; and those gentlemen themselves were apparently of much the same opinion. Cato’s veracity was so impeccable
that the extremest incredulity a Roman could express of anything was to say, ‘I would not believe it even if Cato had
told me.’ Good was good, and bad was bad, for these people. Hypocrisy, which church-Christianity brought in, hardly
existed; the naturalistic system held firm; its values showed no hollowness and brooked no irony. The individual, if
virtuous enough, could meet all possible requirements. The pagan pride had never crumbled. Luther was the first
moralist who broke with any effectiveness through the crust of all this naturalistic self-sufficiency, thinking (and
possibly he was right) that Saint Paul had done it already. Religious experience of the lutheran type brings all our
naturalistic standards to bankruptcy. You are strong only by being weak, it shows. You cannot live on pride or
self-sufficingness. There is a light in which all the naturally founded and currently accepted distinctions,
excellences, and safeguards of our characters appear as utter childishness. Sincerely to give up one’s conceit or hope
of being good in one’s own right is the only door to the universe’s deeper reaches.

These deeper reaches are familiar to evangelical Christianity and to what is nowadays becoming known as ‘mind-cure’
religion or ‘new thought.’ The phenomenon is that of new ranges of life succeeding on our most despairing moments.
There are resources in us that naturalism with its literal and legal virtues never recks of, possibilities that take
our breath away, of another kind of happiness and power, based on giving up our own will and letting something higher
work for us, and these seem to show a world wider than either physics or philistine ethics can imagine. Here is a world
in which all is well, in spite of certain forms of death, indeed because of certain forms of death —
death of hope, death of strength, death of responsibility, of fear and worry, competency and desert, death of
everything that paganism, naturalism, and legalism pin their faith on and tie their trust to.

Reason, operating on our other experiences, even our psychological experiences, would never have inferred these
specifically religious experiences in advance of their actual coming. She could not suspect their existence, for they
are discontinuous with the ‘natural’ experiences they succeed upon and invert their values. But as they actually come
and are given, creation widens to the view of their recipients. They suggest that our natural experience, our strictly
moralistic and prudential experience, may be only a fragment of real human experience. They soften nature’s outlines
and open out the strangest possibilities and perspectives.

This is why it seems to me that the logical understanding, working in abstraction from such specifically religious
experiences, will always omit something, and fail to reach completely adequate conclusions. Death and failure, it will
always say, are death and failure simply, and can nevermore be one with life; so religious experience,
peculiarly so called, needs, in my opinion, to be carefully considered and interpreted by every one who aspires to
reason out a more complete philosophy.

The sort of belief that religious experience of this type naturally engenders in those who have it is fully in
accord with Fechner’s theories. To quote words which I have used elsewhere, the believer finds that the tenderer parts
of his personal life are continuous with a more of the same quality which is operative in the universe outside
of him and which he can keep in working touch with, and in a fashion get on board of and save himself, when all his
lower being has gone to pieces in the wreck. In a word, the believer is continuous, to his own consciousness, at any
rate, with a wider self from which saving experiences flow in. Those who have such experiences distinctly enough and
often enough to live in the light of them remain quite unmoved by criticism, from whatever quarter it may come, be it
academic or scientific, or be it merely the voice of logical common sense. They have had their vision and they
know — that is enough — that we inhabit an invisible spiritual environment from which help comes, our soul
being mysteriously one with a larger soul whose instruments we are.

One may therefore plead, I think, that Fechner’s ideas are not without direct empirical verification. There is at
any rate one side of life which would be easily explicable if those ideas were true, but of which there appears no
clear explanation so long as we assume either with naturalism that human consciousness is the highest consciousness
there is, or with dualistic theism that there is a higher mind in the cosmos, but that it is discontinuous with our
own. It has always been a matter of surprise with me that philosophers of the absolute should have shown so little
interest in this department of life, and so seldom put its phenomena in evidence, even when it seemed obvious that
personal experience of some kind must have made their confidence in their own vision so strong. The logician’s bias has
always been too much with them. They have preferred the thinner to the thicker method, dialectical abstraction being so
much more dignified and academic than the confused and unwholesome facts of personal biography.

In spite of rationalism’s disdain for the particular, the personal, and the unwholesome, the drift of all the
evidence we have seems to me to sweep us very strongly towards the belief in some form of superhuman life with which we
may, unknown to ourselves, be co-conscious. We may be in the universe as dogs and cats are in our libraries, seeing the
books and hearing the conversation, but having no inkling of the meaning of it all. The intellectualist objections to
this fall away when the authority of intellectualist logic is undermined by criticism, and then the positive empirical
evidence remains. The analogies with ordinary psychology and with the facts of pathology, with those of psychical
research, so called, and with those of religious experience, establish, when taken together, a decidedly
formidable probability in favor of a general view of the world almost identical with Fechner’s. The outlines
of the superhuman consciousness thus made probable must remain, however, very vague, and the number of functionally
distinct ‘selves’ it comports and carries has to be left entirely problematic. It may be polytheistically or it may be
monotheistically conceived of. Fechner, with his distinct earth-soul functioning as our guardian angel, seems to me
clearly polytheistic; but the word ‘polytheism’ usually gives offence, so perhaps it is better not to use it. Only one
thing is certain, and that is the result of our criticism of the absolute: the only way to escape from the paradoxes
and perplexities that a consistently thought-out monistic universe suffers from as from a species of auto-intoxication
— the mystery of the ‘fall’ namely, of reality lapsing into appearance, truth into error, perfection into imperfection;
of evil, in short; the mystery of universal determinism, of the block-universe eternal and without a history, etc.; —
the only way of escape, I say, from all this is to be frankly pluralistic and assume that the superhuman consciousness,
however vast it may be, has itself an external environment, and consequently is finite. Present day monism carefully
repudiates complicity with spinozistic monism. In that, it explains, the many get dissolved in the one and lost,
whereas in the improved idealistic form they get preserved in all their manyness as the one’s eternal object. The
absolute itself is thus represented by absolutists as having a pluralistic object. But if even the absolute has to have
a pluralistic vision, why should we ourselves hesitate to be pluralists on our own sole account? Why should we envelop
our many with the ‘one’ that brings so much poison in its train?

The line of least resistance, then, as it seems to me, both in theology and in philosophy, is to accept, along with
the superhuman consciousness, the notion that it is not all-embracing, the notion, in other words, that there is a God,
but that he is finite, either in power or in knowledge, or in both at once. These, I need hardly tell you, are the
terms in which common men have usually carried on their active commerce with God; and the monistic perfections that
make the notion of him so paradoxical practically and morally are the colder addition of remote professorial minds
operating in distans upon conceptual substitutes for him alone.

Why cannot ‘experience’ and ‘reason’ meet on this common ground? Why cannot they compromise? May not the godlessness
usually but needlessly associated with the philosophy of immediate experience give way to a theism now seen to follow
directly from that experience more widely taken? and may not rationalism, satisfied with seeing her a priori
proofs of God so effectively replaced by empirical evidence, abate something of her absolutist claims? Let God but have
the least infinitesimal other of any kind beside him, and empiricism and rationalism might strike hands in a
lasting treaty of peace. Both might then leave abstract thinness behind them, and seek together, as scientific men
seek, by using all the analogies and data within reach, to build up the most probable approximate idea of what the
divine consciousness concretely may be like. I venture to beg the younger Oxford idealists to consider seriously this
alternative. Few men are as qualified by their intellectual gifts to reap the harvests that seem certain to any one
who, like Fechner and Bergson, will leave the thinner for the thicker path.

Compromise and mediation are inseparable from the pluralistic philosophy. Only monistic dogmatism can say of any of
its hypotheses, ‘It is either that or nothing; take it or leave it just as it stands.’ The type of monism prevalent at
Oxford has kept this steep and brittle attitude, partly through the proverbial academic preference for thin and elegant
logical solutions, partly from a mistaken notion that the only solidly grounded basis for religion was along those
lines. If Oxford men could be ignorant of anything, it might almost seem that they had remained ignorant of the great
empirical movement towards a pluralistic panpsychic view of the universe, into which our own generation has been drawn,
and which threatens to short-circuit their methods entirely and become their religious rival unless they are willing to
make themselves its allies. Yet, wedded as they seem to be to the logical machinery and technical apparatus of
absolutism, I cannot but believe that their fidelity to the religious ideal in general is deeper still. Especially do I
find it hard to believe that the more clerical adherents of the school would hold so fast to its particular machinery
if only they could be made to think that religion could be secured in some other way. Let empiricism once become
associated with religion, as hitherto, through some strange misunderstanding, it has been associated with irreligion,
and I believe that a new era of religion as well as of philosophy will be ready to begin. That great awakening of a new
popular interest in philosophy, which is so striking a phenomenon at the present day in all countries, is undoubtedly
due in part to religious demands. As the authority of past tradition tends more and more to crumble, men naturally turn
a wistful ear to the authority of reason or to the evidence of present fact. They will assuredly not be disappointed if
they open their minds to what the thicker and more radical empiricism has to say. I fully believe that such an
empiricism is a more natural ally than dialectics ever were, or can be, of the religious life. It is true that
superstitions and wild-growing over-beliefs of all sorts will undoubtedly begin to abound if the notion of higher
consciousnesses enveloping ours, of fechnerian earth-souls and the like, grows orthodox and fashionable; still more
will they superabound if science ever puts her approving stamp on the phenomena of which Frederic Myers so earnestly
advocated the scientific recognition, the phenomena of psychic research so-called — and I myself firmly believe that
most of these phenomena are rooted in reality. But ought one seriously to allow such a timid consideration as that to
deter one from following the evident path of greatest religious promise? Since when, in this mixed world, was any good
thing given us in purest outline and isolation? One of the chief characteristics of life is life’s redundancy. The sole
condition of our having anything, no matter what, is that we should have so much of it, that we are fortunate if we do
not grow sick of the sight and sound of it altogether. Everything is smothered in the litter that is fated to accompany
it. Without too much you cannot have enough, of anything. Lots of inferior books, lots of bad statues, lots of dull
speeches, of tenth-rate men and women, as a condition of the few precious specimens in either kind being realized! The
gold-dust comes to birth with the quartz-sand all around it, and this is as much a condition of religion as of any
other excellent possession. There must be extrication; there must be competition for survival; but the clay matrix and
the noble gem must first come into being unsifted. Once extricated, the gem can be examined separately, conceptualized,
defined, and insulated. But this process of extrication cannot be short-circuited — or if it is, you get the thin
inferior abstractions which we have seen, either the hollow unreal god of scholastic theology, or the unintelligible
pantheistic monster, instead of the more living divine reality with which it appears certain that empirical methods
tend to connect men in imagination.

Arrived at this point, I ask you to go back to my first lecture and remember, if you can, what I quoted there from
your own Professor Jacks — what he said about the philosopher himself being taken up into the universe which he is
accounting for. This is the fechnerian as well as the hegelian view, and thus our end rejoins harmoniously our
beginning. Philosophies are intimate parts of the universe, they express something of its own thought of itself. A
philosophy may indeed be a most momentous reaction of the universe upon itself. It may, as I said, possess and handle
itself differently in consequence of us philosophers, with our theories, being here; it may trust itself or mistrust
itself the more, and, by doing the one or the other, deserve more the trust or the mistrust. What mistrusts itself
deserves mistrust.

This is the philosophy of humanism in the widest sense. Our philosophies swell the current of being, add their
character to it. They are part of all that we have met, of all that makes us be. As a French philosopher says, ‘Nous
sommes du réel dans le réel.’ Our thoughts determine our acts, and our acts redetermine the previous nature of the
world.

Thus does foreignness get banished from our world, and far more so when we take the system of it pluralistically
than when we take it monistically. We are indeed internal parts of God and not external creations, on any possible
reading of the panpsychic system. Yet because God is not the absolute, but is himself a part when the system is
conceived pluralistically, his functions can be taken as not wholly dissimilar to those of the other smaller parts — as
similar to our functions consequently.

Having an environment, being in time, and working out a history just like ourselves, he escapes from the foreignness
from all that is human, of the static timeless perfect absolute.

Remember that one of our troubles with that was its essential foreignness and monstrosity — there really is no other
word for it than that. Its having the all-inclusive form gave to it an essentially heterogeneous nature from
ourselves. And this great difference between absolutism and pluralism demands no difference in the universe’s material
content — it follows from a difference in the form alone. The all-form or monistic form makes the foreignness result,
the each-form or pluralistic form leaves the intimacy undisturbed.

No matter what the content of the universe may be, if you only allow that it is many everywhere and always,
that nothing real escapes from having an environment; so far from defeating its rationality, as the
absolutists so unanimously pretend, you leave it in possession of the maximum amount of rationality practically
attainable by our minds. Your relations with it, intellectual, emotional, and active, remain fluent and congruous with
your own nature’s chief demands.

It would be a pity if the word ‘rationality’ were allowed to give us trouble here. It is one of those eulogistic
words that both sides claim — for almost no one is willing to advertise his philosophy as a system of irrationality.
But like most of the words which people used eulogistically, the word ‘rational’ carries too many meanings. The most
objective one is that of the older logic — the connexion between two things is rational when you can infer one from the
other, mortal from Socrates, e.g.; and you can do that only when they have a quality in common. But this kind
of rationality is just that logic of identity which all disciples of Hegel find insufficient. They supersede it by the
higher rationality of negation and contradiction and make the notion vague again. Then you get the aesthetic or
teleologic kinds of rationality, saying that whatever fits in any way, whatever is beautiful or good, whatever is
purposive or gratifies desire, is rational in so far forth. Then again, according to Hegel, whatever is ‘real’ is
rational. I myself said awhile ago that whatever lets loose any action which we are fond of exerting seems rational. It
would be better to give up the word ‘rational’ altogether than to get into a merely verbal fight about who has the best
right to keep it.

Perhaps the words ‘foreignness’ and ‘intimacy,’ which I put forward in my first lecture, express the contrast I
insist on better than the words ‘rationality’ and ‘irrationality’— let us stick to them, then. I now say that the
notion of the ‘one’ breeds foreignness and that of the ‘many’ intimacy, for reasons which I have urged at only too
great length, and with which, whether they convince you or not, I may suppose that you are now well acquainted. But
what at bottom is meant by calling the universe many or by calling it one?

Pragmatically interpreted, pluralism or the doctrine that it is many means only that the sundry parts of reality
may be externally related. Everything you can think of, however vast or inclusive, has on the pluralistic view
a genuinely ‘external’ environment of some sort or amount. Things are ‘with’ one another in many ways, but nothing
includes everything, or dominates over everything. The word ‘and’ trails along after every sentence. Something always
escapes. ‘Ever not quite’ has to be said of the best attempts made anywhere in the universe at attaining
all-inclusiveness. The pluralistic world is thus more like a federal republic than like an empire or a kingdom. However
much may be collected, however much may report itself as present at any effective centre of consciousness or action,
something else is self-governed and absent and unreduced to unity.

Monism, on the other hand, insists that when you come down to reality as such, to the reality of realities,
everything is present to everything else in one vast instantaneous co-implicated completeness — nothing can in
any sense, functional or substantial, be really absent from anything else, all things interpenetrate and
telescope together in the great total conflux.

For pluralism, all that we are required to admit as the constitution of reality is what we ourselves find
empirically realized in every minimum of finite life. Briefly it is this, that nothing real is absolutely simple, that
every smallest bit of experience is a multum in parvo plurally related, that each relation is one aspect,
character, or function, way of its being taken, or way of its taking something else; and that a bit of reality when
actively engaged in one of these relations is not by that very fact engaged in all the other relations
simultaneously. The relations are not all what the French call solidaires with one another. Without
losing its identity a thing can either take up or drop another thing, like the log I spoke of, which by taking up new
carriers and dropping old ones can travel anywhere with a light escort.

For monism, on the contrary, everything, whether we realize it or not, drags the whole universe along with itself
and drops nothing. The log starts and arrives with all its carriers supporting it. If a thing were once disconnected,
it could never be connected again, according to monism. The pragmatic difference between the two systems is thus a
definite one. It is just thus, that if a is once out of sight of b or out of touch with it, or, more
briefly, ‘out’ of it at all, then, according to monism, it must always remain so, they can never get together; whereas
pluralism admits that on another occasion they may work together, or in some way be connected again. Monism allows for
no such things as ‘other occasions’ in reality — in real or absolute reality, that is.

The difference I try to describe amounts, you see, to nothing more than the difference between what I formerly
called the each-form and the all-form of reality. Pluralism lets things really exist in the each-form or
distributively. Monism thinks that the all-form or collective-unit form is the only form that is rational. The all-form
allows of no taking up and dropping of connexions, for in the all the parts are essentially and eternally
co-implicated. In the each-form, on the contrary, a thing may be connected by intermediary things, with a thing with
which it has no immediate or essential connexion. It is thus at all times in many possible connexions which are not
necessarily actualized at the moment. They depend on which actual path of intermediation it may functionally strike
into: the word ‘or’ names a genuine reality. Thus, as I speak here, I may look ahead or to the right
or to the left, and in either case the intervening space and air and ether enable me to see the faces of a
different portion of this audience. My being here is independent of any one set of these faces.

If the each-form be the eternal form of reality no less than it is the form of temporal appearance, we still have a
coherent world, and not an incarnate incoherence, as is charged by so many absolutists. Our ‘multiverse’ still makes a
‘universe’; for every part, tho it may not be in actual or immediate connexion, is nevertheless in some possible or
mediated connexion, with every other part however remote, through the fact that each part hangs together with its very
next neighbors in inextricable interfusion. The type of union, it is true, is different here from the monistic type of
all-einheit. It is not a universal co-implication, or integration of all things durcheinander. It is
what I call the strung-along type, the type of continuity, contiguity, or concatenation. If you prefer greek words, you
may call it the synechistic type. At all events, you see that it forms a definitely conceivable alternative to the
through-and-through unity of all things at once, which is the type opposed to it by monism. You see also that it stands
or falls with the notion I have taken such pains to defend, of the through-and-through union of adjacent minima of
experience, of the confluence of every passing moment of concretely felt experience with its immediately next
neighbors. The recognition of this fact of coalescence of next with next in concrete experience, so that all the
insulating cuts we make there are artificial products of the conceptualizing faculty, is what distinguishes the
empiricism which I call ‘radical,’ from the bugaboo empiricism of the traditional rationalist critics, which (rightly
or wrongly) is accused of chopping up experience into atomistic sensations, incapable of union with one another until a
purely intellectual principle has swooped down upon them from on high and folded them in its own conjunctive
categories.

Here, then, you have the plain alternative, and the full mystery of the difference between pluralism and monism, as
clearly as I can set it forth on this occasion. It packs up into a nutshell:— Is the manyness in oneness that
indubitably characterizes the world we inhabit, a property only of the absolute whole of things, so that you must
postulate that one-enormous-whole indivisibly as the prius of there being any many at all — in other words,
start with the rationalistic block-universe, entire, unmitigated, and complete? — or can the finite elements have their
own aboriginal forms of manyness in oneness, and where they have no immediate oneness still be continued into one
another by intermediary terms — each one of these terms being one with its next neighbors, and yet the total ‘oneness’
never getting absolutely complete?

The alternative is definite. It seems to me, moreover, that the two horns of it make pragmatically different ethical
appeals — at least they may do so, to certain individuals. But if you consider the pluralistic horn to be
intrinsically irrational, self-contradictory, and absurd, I can now say no more in its defence. Having done what I
could in my earlier lectures to break the edge of the intellectualistic reductiones ad absurdum, I must leave
the issue in your hands. Whatever I may say, each of you will be sure to take pluralism or leave it, just as your own
sense of rationality moves and inclines. The only thing I emphatically insist upon is that it is a fully co-ordinate
hypothesis with monism. This world may, in the last resort, be a block-universe; but on the other hand it
may be a universe only strung-along, not rounded in and closed. Reality may exist distributively just
as it sensibly seems to, after all. On that possibility I do insist.

One’s general vision of the probable usually decides such alternatives. They illustrate what I once wrote of as the
‘will to believe.’ In some of my lectures at Harvard I have spoken of what I call the ‘faith-ladder,’ as something
quite different from the sorites of the logic-books, yet seeming to have an analogous form. I think you will
quickly recognize in yourselves, as I describe it, the mental process to which I give this name.

A conception of the world arises in you somehow, no matter how. Is it true or not? you ask.

It might be true somewhere, you say, for it is not self-contradictory.

It may be true, you continue, even here and now.

It is fit to be true, it would be well if it were true, it ought to be true, you
presently feel.

It must be true, something persuasive in you whispers next; and then — as a final result —

It shall be held for true, you decide; it shall be as if true, for you.

And your acting thus may in certain special cases be a means of making it securely true in the end.

Not one step in this process is logical, yet it is the way in which monists and pluralists alike espouse and hold
fast to their visions. It is life exceeding logic, it is the practical reason for which the theoretic reason finds
arguments after the conclusion is once there. In just this way do some of us hold to the unfinished pluralistic
universe; in just this way do others hold to the timeless universe eternally complete.

Meanwhile the incompleteness of the pluralistic universe, thus assumed and held to as the most probable hypothesis,
is also represented by the pluralistic philosophy as being self-reparative through us, as getting its disconnections
remedied in part by our behavior. ‘We use what we are and have, to know; and what we know, to be and have still
more.’53 Thus do philosophy and reality, theory and action, work in the same
circle indefinitely.

I have now finished these poor lectures, and as you look back on them, they doubtless seem rambling and inconclusive
enough. My only hope is that they may possibly have proved suggestive; and if indeed they have been suggestive of one
point of method, I am almost willing to let all other suggestions go. That point is that it is high time for the
basis of discussion in these questions to be broadened and thickened up. It is for that that I have brought in
Fechner and Bergson, and descriptive psychology and religious experiences, and have ventured even to hint at psychical
research and other wild beasts of the philosophic desert. Owing possibly to the fact that Plato and Aristotle, with
their intellectualism, are the basis of philosophic study here, the Oxford brand of transcendentalism seems to me to
have confined itself too exclusively to thin logical considerations, that would hold good in all conceivable worlds,
worlds of an empirical constitution entirely different from ours. It is as if the actual peculiarities of the world
that is were entirely irrelevant to the content of truth. But they cannot be irrelevant; and the philosophy of the
future must imitate the sciences in taking them more and more elaborately into account. I urge some of the younger
members of this learned audience to lay this hint to heart. If you can do so effectively, making still more concrete
advances upon the path which Fechner and Bergson have so enticingly opened up, if you can gather philosophic
conclusions of any kind, monistic or pluralistic, from the particulars of life, I will say, as I now do say,
with the cheerfullest of hearts, ‘Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, but ring the fuller minstrel in.’